The Wicked North (Hearts Touched By Fire Book 1)

  Dedication

  It is time to honor the dead. To give respect and remembrance and to save the hallow grounds of our ancestors who fought in this terrible war, The War of the Rebellion, 1861-1865. Though the war itself was four years, the trouble that came to a head in April 1861 in the attack on Fort Sumter, had been brewing for generations. For the people who lived through it, died for it and those who survived, each for the North and the South, need to be remembered. This war forged our nation, defining us as a true republic, much to the dismay of Europe who hoped our self-governing system destroyed us verses making us stronger. It is not a time, now, to destroy memorial statues and markers depicting the War on either side or destroy our history just to appease modern correctness, for what we do not learn from the past, we are doomed to repeat.

  Therefore, I honor the soldiers who fought in our Civil War, both North and South. Rest in peace and know you will not be forgotten!

  Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can, and strike him as hard as you can. And keep moving on!

  —General U.S. Grant

  Virginia, June 1862

  Emma Silvers was not afraid to shoot Yankees.

  She leveled the .57 caliber Enfield rifle at the line of blue coats standing before her porch at Rose Hill that evening. She counted ten men, fully armed and wielding torches. They reeked of wet wool, sweat and gun powder–a noxious mixture combined with the scent of pink roses surrounding the house. Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed hard.

  The officer took a step forward. In the dim light, she couldn’t discern his face, though she saw him flinch as she pointed the muzzle at him.

  “I want you off my land, now,” she demanded, her voice remarkably even despite her pounding heart. At twenty-two years and virtually alone, she knew one able-bodied man could easily overwhelm her. With no able men and few slaves remaining, she only had bravado left.

  “Now, ma’am,” the Union officer began. He spoke like a gentleman, but, dressed in blue, he was an imposter as far as she was concerned.

  Jeremiah, just behind her right shoulder, cocked the hammer on his rifle—a welcome sound to her ears. Good boy, Emma thought. If the Yankees didn’t believe she was a threat, she hoped the armed slave boy next to her got the message across. She wasn’t allowing any soldiers on her property again.

  The rifle felt heavier by the minute, making her muscles ache, and she feared she’d drop it. The weapon was foreign to her hands, but as the war raged closer to her home, she learned to use it. She wasn’t very good at it, but, as close as the Yankees were, she was bound to hit one of them. She didn’t want to pull the trigger. The gun’s recoil would knock her off her feet, throwing her aim off. With so few bullets left, she’d hate to lose the shot.

  The light streamed through the open front door across the officer as he stepped onto the porch. She saw his face and the nose of the gun slipped. Jack Fontaine, that good-for-nothing traitor! How dare he come here, especially after what had happened last summer? Rage took control and gave her the added strength to pull the muzzle up to his chest as she cocked the trigger.

  “Emma, please,” he said softly. He looked at her the same way he had that night months ago, his green eyes glowing like emeralds in the light. She remembered those eyes, those mesmerizing emerald eyes. They were all hers the night she had lost her heart to him. The night he had betrayed her. Her anger flared. No. Not this time. Not again, she vowed. Gritting her teeth, Emma narrowed her gaze.

  “Get away from me, Jack, or I swear to God, I’ll blow a hole through you and send you straight to hell!”

  Inside the house, a babe wailed. Emma instinctively turned. Jack reached for her and she panicked, squeezing the trigger. The rifle exploded, throwing her backwards, pain shooting into her shoulder. But instead of falling, she found herself in Jack’s arms as they wrapped around her, shielding her back from the impact of the wooden floor.

  The patrol stormed onto the porch and into the house. Lying in his embrace, his body shielding hers as his troops marched past them, Emma couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were wide open. She felt the heat of him around her. The scent of him invaded her senses. Warm, masculine, and spicy rolled into one. She fought the heat in her belly, but it was hard as his eyes locked onto hers, his lips only inches away.

  She closed her eyes. Behind her, the wailing continued, and she heard the thud of soldiers' boots inside. Her jaw tightened as she glared at him. “Get off me, Jack.”

  I can anticipate no greater calamity for the country than the dissolution of the Union.

  It would be an accumulation of all the evils we complain of, and I am willing to sacrifice everything but honor for its preservation.

  —Col. Robert E. Lee, USA, in a letter to his son Custis, January 23, 1861

  Chapter One

  May 1853, West Point

  Jack Fontaine bent over his horse’s neck, shortening the reins, his thighs holding his stance as they raced down the countryside late in the afternoon. The Riding Hall was straight ahead, the end of their race. Jack bent low to his ride’s body, and the bay’s black mane whipped across his face as they raced to the building.

  His horse, Windswept, made excellent time and the distance narrowed, but he could hear the thundering of hooves coming close. Jack didn’t have to look to see it was James Ewell Brown Stuart, a classmate of his, the class of 1854. Stuart was closing in, fast and furious on his white steed. The duo had stayed behind them for most of the race until now. Moonstruck was soon alongside Windswept, and the two riders turned to face to each other, laughing as they made the final turn to the stable yard.

  Waiting near the stable doors, young cadet John Sappington Marmaduke stood, waving the air with his uniform hat. The thundering hooves passed him before they slowed to a trot and down to a walk.

  “Yes! Moonstruck!” Marmaduke exclaimed, following the horses as they circled to the distant post.

  Stuart laughed the loudest. His hand slapped Jack’s shoulder as they walked the two horses around the stables, cooling the animals down.

  “You see, laddo,” Stuart stated flatly. “Never underestimate this beast!”

  Jack laughed as he rubbed Windswept’s neck. “Perhaps, but you cut that turn short back there…”

  “I daresay you can’t take losing to me,” the winner stated, mirth still marking his lips.

  “Stunning race, stunning!” Marmaduke declared as he reached them.

  Both riders slid off their mounts and in uniform precision, threw the reins over their horses’ heads as they led them back to the fence around the pasture. Taking the saddles and bridles from their mounts, the men motioned to the two young stable lads who scampered to the horses. Jack and Stuart walked into the tack room as the boys rubbed the beasts down and gave them oats.

  “You were cutting it close,” Marmaduke said. “If Mr. Trenton returned and found you racing those two, the demerits would’ve been high.”

  “I don’t know, Jeb, what ya’ think?” With a lopsided grin, Jack turned to his co-conspirator. “Thinkin’ we’re getting friendly warning here or someone lookin’ to get a bribe?”

  Stuart laughed and swung the saddle up to the peg on the wall. “Don’t rightly know, meself. Could be he’s wanting a piece.”

  Marmaduke colored at Stuart’s remark, not looking to start a fight. Jack knew Marmaduke, two years behind them, wanted to join in their wild excursions. Truth be told, there’d be hell to pay if the master of horses found them racing across the fields. He opened his mouth to speak when a movement caught his eye. He turned and found his roommate, Charles Silvers, trying to hide in the corner behind a wall of tack. In
his lap was his mechanical engineering book.

  Jack sighed. “Charlie, what are you doing here?”

  The boy looked up and gave a half smile. “Ah, Jack, you know I can’t concentrate with all the ruckus in the parade field.”

  Stuart joined Jack. “Silvers, my man, whatever is the cause?”

  “He’s studying, Jeb, can’t you see that book?” Jack elbowed the cavalryman. “You and I should be doing the same with finals approaching.”

  Stuart snorted and walked off. Jack smiled. Stuart was studious and excelled at West Point. For Jack, his parents made education a top priority, so he had many tutors teaching him as he grew up in Louisiana. Hence his studies at the Point weren’t as difficult as Charles’, who barely scraped by.

  Charlie Silvers was typical of many students at the Point. Political connections got him in the door. The Virginian planter’s son excelled in drawing and reading, with basic mathematics good enough to manage a prosperous farm like his family’s Rose Hill plantation. But Charles wanted adventure, and the Army promised a ticket out of the Commonwealth.

  Jack shook his head and turned to leave. “Watch your timing, Charles. You can’t be out after call.”

  The man scrambled to his feet. “Jack, please, I need your help.”

  Jack stopped but didn’t turn around. Charles fretted at the end of every term and begged Jack for help. This time, Jack wanted payment for his services. Summer was coming and he didn’t have arrangements to last till fall. He refused to return home to the sultry, hot hell of his father’s house.

  “Charles, for my time, I’d better be duly compensated.”

  “You will, I promise.” Charles was behind him, and Jack could hear the rustling of book and lecture notes in his roommate’s hands. “Come home with me this summer. We’re having quite the celebration with my sister’s introduction to good Southern society. I know it’ll stretch to cover our time off, with plenty of ladies and drink.” He grinned.

  Jack’s lips twitched. Charles might have hit the ticket. “Your sister?”

  “Yes, Caroline,” Charles replied. “She’s the oldest, turning seventeen this spring. My parents are having a week-long party for her. Everyone’s coming.” He walked closer, and his voice dropped. “And, I daresay, it will be quite the party.”

  Jack laughed. The man was desperate, offering his sister’s celebrations as an enticement. Well, why not? Anything was better than his home.

  “All right, come on then,” Jack stated. “And, Charles, I better be having a good time, you hear me?”

  Charles laughed nervously. “No problem on that, Jack. No problem at all.”

  #

  Rose Hill Plantation, King Charles, Virginia

  June in Virginia was lush, green and inviting to the study-weary Jack as he neared Charles’ home, Rose Hill, just north of the James River. The closest city was Petersburg, a growing railroad hub for the state. The capital, Richmond, was a day’s ride by horseback. And horseback was still the easiest form of transportation in the South as railroads seemed non-existent there in comparison to the North. Granted, he could have taken the train and left with Charles when their tests were finished, but he preferred to ride his horse. Time to relax and not think about the Point–that was Jack’s objective. That and forgetting the letter he received from his mother, begging him to reconsider and come home for the break.

  At the top of the hill, Jack halted Windswept and looked down at the fertile farmland below. Charles’ house, named after the wild roses growing in abundance around the two-storied white clapboard mansion, was one of the older homesteads in the area. Charles boasted his family had arrived two hundred years ago. Jack gazed at the cotton fields and the gang of slaves working the crops. He shook his head at the sight. Just like home…

  Inhaling deeply, he twisted in the saddle and flexed his back after the hours of riding. Windswept sidestepped and snorted. Exhaustion seeped into Jack’s bones, but the time to relax was still an hour away. Nudging the stallion on, he rode toward the copse of trees and the creek that fed them. His mount deserved the water, and Jack wanted to stretch his legs so they would not be cramped from days in the saddle.

  As he got closer to the trees, it wasn’t a creek he’d seen from above but a stream, large enough for small rafts and with a bridge across it. The water rippled and he stopped in the cover of the trees. Someone sat on the small boat platform. He looked closer and saw a young lady wearing a blue chintz dress. Her bonnet lay next to her on the decking, with her white gloves, black stockings and black square-toed boots beside it. She sat on the edge, her skirt and petticoats pulled high enough to expose her naked calves as her bare feet splashed in the cool water. The sleeves of her dress were unbuttoned and pushed up, and her collar, unpinned, lay open. Her auburn hair, plaited in one long braid, fell down her back, the strands under the sunlight shone like copper. Pretty, young and risking her reputation if discovered.

  Jack smiled. She might be Caroline, but she looked a mite younger than seventeen to his eyes. To protect her privacy, he leaned back in the saddle, signaling to Windswept to step back. The stallion took one step, but with fresh water so close, he shook his head and sidestepped forward. The commotion of the leather and bit and the horse blowing through his nostrils caught the girl’s attention. She looked back toward him, her eyes squinting, brows furrowed, but she didn’t move.

  With a mental shrug, Jack sat upright in the saddle and loosened the reins. Windswept took advantage and moved to the stream.

  At the bank, close to the dock platform, Jack slid off the horse.

  The young woman gave him a look, her lips twitched, but she said nothing. Her honey brown eyes stood out against the splatter of freckles across her nose. She had high cheekbones and a narrow chin with rose lips pink in the light.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Jack stated. He took his hat off. “Jack Fontaine at your service.”

  She stared, appearing rather indifferent to him, his horse and his presence in general. Her lips tightened and she narrowed her eyes. “I’m not Caroline.”

  Jack smirked at her tone. “All right,” he said calmly. “Then you might be?”

  “Someone,” she stated flatly, turning her eyes back toward the stream.

  Jack’s lips curved to a half-grin. Most ladies he knew would have been mortified to be caught barelegged by a man…stranger or known…and rapidly try to cover themselves up. The young lady had dismissed him as a nobody. And that fascinated him.

  “Well, Miss Someone,” he said with amusement. “This is the Rose Hill Plantation, is it not?”

  Her gaze darted back to him, and, if he heard correctly, she huffed. His grin widened.

  She pulled her legs out of the water. Her dainty feet and shapely calves made him wonder about the rest of her. Crunching the brim of his hat, he dampened his thoughts. At nineteen, his mind wandered too frequently to places it didn’t need to go, but she was—intriguing.

  “Yes, of course,” she answered. She stood and her dress fell over her bare legs, hiding them from his sight. She grabbed her boots, stockings and gloves in one hand and her bonnet in the other. Shoving the straw hat on, she told him bluntly, “Just keep heading straight and you’ll find Caroline…along with all the other men.”

  “Thank you, Miss…”

  She didn’t look back at him, just walked off the landing with a snort.

  Jack smiled. This summer may not be as boring as he feared.

  #

  Emma Silvers stalked off to her mare, tethered in the woods, away from that Yankee-sounding man on the deck. Her bare feet did not like the twigs, dirt, stones and bugs she walked on, but her dignity prevented her from stopping and putting on her boots until she heard him leave. Hiking her skirts higher, she stood on the stump next to Angel and mounted the grey mare bareback, astraddle like the men did. She took the back way to the house to avoid Mr. Busy-body.

  Riding up to the rear entrance, with many of the house slaves and children scurrying about in th
eir chores, Emma slid off Angel, dropped the reins and flattened her skirts.

  “Miss Emma,” Sally scolded her from the landing at the door. “Your mama…”

  “Not now, Miss Sally,” she interrupted. Sally was her mother’s favorite house slave, and she had helped Emma and her brother and sister in their growing years. Emma loved her but didn’t want to be lectured by a house slave about the right way for a lady to act. Hearing it from her mother was bad enough.

  Gathering her skirts, Emma ran up the servant staircase in the back to the second floor. She went to her room and threw her hat and gloves on her bed.

  “There you are.”

  Emma closed her eyes as she plucked at her bodice buttons. Caroline.

  “Yes, here I am,” she stated blandly.

  “Everyone has been looking for you.” Caroline walked straight into her sister’s room and sat on the settee. Caroline studied her sister and shook her head. “Down at the stream again, huh? You know you’re not to go there alone, especially this week. We have too many guests, too many young men about for it to be safe.”

  Shoving her gown off, Emma responded, “I know your only concern is not about my safety but about you losing the center of every man’s attention if they have to search for me.” She felt nothing but disgust. When children, they had been so close, but not now. In the past year or two, her sister had become a self-centered creature. Of course, their parents doting on Caroline was out of control as far as Emma was concerned and made her sister intolerable. Now her actions had become even worse—Caroline’s debut into society had meant introductions to eligible suitors, but, heaven forbid, she had a younger sister! Only two years younger, but Caroline still considered her no more than a child in so many ways. Emma bristled. She was not a child and grew tired of Caroline’s snotty treatment.